Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Megyn Kelly and the Black Who Stole Christmas

So I fuck with the meter, and it's not that great a poem to begin with, but Megyn Kelly's really pissing me off right now so I did the best I could. There is no fucking reason why Santa should be absolutely white, and no reason why Kelly should argue that she's being tongue-in-cheek when she clearly was pissed off at the very idea that Santa is any color other than white--I mean, I spend most of my life with my tongue in a cheek--in several ways--and I don't know which I find more offensive: her use of 'tongue-in-cheek' or her insistence that an imaginary character is white (and don't even get me started on Jesus' ethnicity).

Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The hoodies were hung from the Christmas tree branches
In hopes that St. Zimmerman would soon do some lynches.

The white children were nestled, all smug in their beds,
While visions of Riefenstahl's Triumph of the Will danced in their heads.
And pappa in his robe, and I in my trap... wrap. Wrap, not trap. Wrap!
Had just settled our brains despite the War on Christmas crap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter.
I sprang from my bed to see what was the clatter.
Clatter and clatter and clatter, I say.
It's the only thing liberals do: clatter all day.

Seriously, it's just clatter. Clutter and clatter and clatter and clutter
As if all Libs are consumed with smothering with "Other".
But I digress.
Did I mention I look great in a short nightgowness?

Peering from the window, I saw fresh white snow.
Nothing more than that, just a white soft glow.
There was a moon that shined down on us all
and nothing more to see as the snow did fall.

The flakes fell on the snow white as could be.
And all I could think was that the snow could be me.
Falling faintly and faintly falling, the snow was so white
That if it were me I would think it most trite.

Clatter and clatter and clatter some more.
It sounded as if we were besieged by unseen poor.
"On Casher, on O-care, on Tax'em and Big Governmentizing!
On Fair Wages and Self-Awareness and Nixon Demonizing!"

From the shadows emerged shades by the score.
I peed in my PJs, then peed them some more.
There were no white men to help with my fear--
my husband slumbered on, the sweet useless dear.

As dry as the wit when a news broadcast airs,
When I saw all the shadows my instinct was to pare:
"I assume you are all tongue in cheek. Now go away, go away.
Tomorrow is Christmas and a white Holiday.'

"Jesus is white, and Santa is too
So please stop attacking me--I've already gone to the 'loo
In my pants as if I had a chimney--fuck you.
I saw the dark poors, and opened my flue."

The clattering poors did something I would not:
They backed away as if they were shot
By Zimmerman and they did one thing more:
They smiled and they waved and didn't call me a whore.

Merry Christmas, they cried, and Happy Kwanza too!
Happy Hols, and whatever pleases you!
But I heard them explain as the melted out of sight:
It's important to remember life is not owned by FOX outright.

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